


Is It Love At First Sight, Or Do I Need To Walk By Again?

by MsThunderFrost



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Awkward Flirting, Bad Pick-Up Lines, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Drunken Flirting, Established Relationship, Everyone notices, Flirting, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier Has Pretty Eyes, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Makeup, Near Death Experiences, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Ships It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23102083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: For this prompt:Inspired by how Joey Batey's eyes were absolutely poppin' in the scenes with the lighting and his bloodied chemise in the episode bottled appetites.I'd like a series of vignettes or something where various people notice how pretty Jaskier's eyes are please. Maybe a 5+1?Bonus points for Geralt being slightly growly when he realises how many people thinks his bard's eyes are pretty.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Other(s)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 1270





	Is It Love At First Sight, Or Do I Need To Walk By Again?

*One*

Geralt is exhausted, and his _one chance_ to catch a few winks just magically sucker-punched his bard in the throat. If he hadn’t been certain that Destiny was taking _great_ delight in wagging her middle finger in his face before, well… 

He’d be upset, if Jaskier’s throat wasn’t bulging like he’d tried to swallow an apple _whole_ . The delicate column of ivory flesh is a _rainbow_ of color, stained in varying shades of blue and purple and green. A curse catches in his throat as Jaskier’s body pitches forward, dark red blood frothing over chapped lips… he catches him, regret for their foolish squabble bubbling up and threatening to suffocate him. He should’ve known better, shouldn’t have allowed the bard to rile him so… He’s supposed to be _protecting_ him, not throwing him into the line of fire…

He feels useless. This… This is an injury that _he_ caused through his own carelessness, and he doesn’t know how to fix it… or if there is even _time_ to try. Jaskier smells of fear and _rot_ , and though his cornflower blue eyes are wide, bright and _aware_ , his skin is unnaturally pale and tacky with sweat, his heartbeat accelerated… The bard is dying, and if Geralt wasn’t so damned _tired_ , he’d probably be panicking. Jaskier’s body is limp in his arms and fuck, he might actually be panicking, just a little bit. He’ll be fine. _He’ll be fine_ . _He’ll. Be. Fine._

“Oh dear…” Geralt’s slow-beating heart pulls a full stop. _Nobody_ wants to hear a medical professional begin their analysis with the words ‘oh dear’. “I assure you that I have received the best medical education right here in Rinde, but… these injuries are of a magical nature. I can help with the pain, but it’s a bit like…”

Geralt eyes the multicolored bulge that rests at the base of Jaskier’s throat, “Putting salve on a tumor?”

Jaskier wheezes, “No!” Because tumors are bad, and tumors resting overtop a bard’s _vocal chords_ are even worse. Those bright blue eyes, wet with tears, focus on Geralt, and it’s all the Witcher can do to rub his back soothingly. 

“His throat was attacked. If the spell’s action isn’t halted as soon as possible, the damage might be irreversible.” The eleven healer finishes concocting a fowl smelling tincture, brings the flask to Jaskier’s plump lips… and stops. Geralt stares at him blankly, wondering if he’s awaiting a formal invitation to _do his job_.

“Is something the matter?” Other than, you know, the _obvious_. The elf’s hand begins trembling. 

“Your eyes are… _breathtaking.”_ Geralt blinks. Okay, that is… not what he’d been expecting. Not at all. His arm tightens around Jaskier’s middle, pulling the bard flush to his side. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such an intense shade of blue before. They’re --,” 

He reaches out to touch Jaskier’s cheek, to brush away the crystalline tears which drip from the bard’s ebony lashes. Geralt grabs his wrist, squeezes hard enough to feel the bones pop and shift beneath his fingers, “I do believe you promised to alleviate his pain.”

The elf snaps out of it before Geralt’s hand can _slip_ and break his wrist. He offers a shaky smile that does not quite meet his eyes, and helps Jaskier to drink down the potion… Jaskier doesn’t swallow much, but enough makes it into his belly that he stops sounding like a kicked puppy every time he breathes. That is, of course, until the fool mentions that, should he not receive a magical remedy, he’ll die. And, daft though he may be at times, Jaskier is no fool. He _knew_ that death was a very real possibility. But if you don’t give _voice_ to it…

“It’s a shame, to see such a pretty little songbird suffering so.” What in the… Is he invisible? Is the healer so blind that he cannot see Geralt’s arm wrapped around his waist, cannot see the bard resting his clammy head against Geralt’s chest? “...You’ll have to take him to another town.”

Geralt frowns. Appealing though it may be to take his bard far away from overly affectionate elves, if Jaskier only has a few hours, there’s not necessarily _time_. “There isn’t a mage here?”

The elf looks… uncomfortable, as he explains that the mage is being held captive in the Mayor’s home. “Be careful. The mage is powerful and malicious. And quite cunning.” There seems to be something else which he’s holding back, but Geralt is unable to pinpoint what that might be.

He settles on, “You sound half in love with them.” The healer flushes. “Tell me, did they have breathtaking eyes, too?” He’s one-hundred percent committed to blaming the irritation that leaks into his tone on his lack of sleep. It most certainly has _nothing_ to do with the fact that Chireadan is _still_ making doe eyes at his bard. 

“A lovely shade of amethyst.” He concedes, before adding, “But nowhere near as striking as the bard’s particular shade of blue. And those lashes…” 

“...We’ll be leaving, now.” He half-throws Jaskier over his shoulder in his haste to leave the healer’s tent.

That was… weird. He’s well aware of his bard’s charms, knows that he can have men and women alike throwing themselves at his feet with a bright smile and a few candied words. But most are not so bold as to make a pass at the bardling in Geralt’s presence. Even if they aren’t privy to the exact nature of their relationship, the presence of a Witcher hardly puts one in the mood for romance. Add in the fact that the bard is currently drowning in his own blood, and well… The elf was weird, but he was _moderately_ helpful, so Geralt will look the other way. This time.

After all, he’s probably just being overly sensitive. He legitimately cannot remember the last time he had a decent night’s rest, and now that Jaskier is dying, sleep is the furthest thing from his mind. He’s short, irritable… Fuck, he’d actually _shouted_ at Jaskier a short while ago -- it feels like a lifetime ago, he thinks, as he settles into the saddle, Jaskier’s lithe body slouched against his back. He’s not thinking rationally, but then, when was the last time he’d made a rational choice where the bardling was concerned?

Roach grunts softly as he steers her into the heart of the town, urging her to move as fast as she can without risking sending Jaskier tumbling off of her back. He hopes that this Mayor Chireadan spoke of is more agreeable than Foltest… or Calanthe… 

Fuck, they’re _so_ screwed.

*Two*

So, this is the Mayor… _Definitely_ not what he’d been expecting. At all.

He’s… naked. _Very_ naked. And very clearly off with the fairies, so to speak. Geralt can smell the alcohol on his breath clear across the room. Jaskier tenses in his arms, his face going slack with shock as he tries to find an acceptable place to direct his gaze. He eventually finds the Mayor’s face, the old man’s expression just as dumb-struck as Jaskier’s, and for a moment, they simply stare at one another. A jug of… _something_ (Geralt presumes that it’s _more_ alcohol, but it’s difficult to tell, considering how intently he’s focusing on keeping his eyes above the belt) falls from the Mayor’s hand and shatters on the floor, breaking the trance.

“W-Welcome to… my home…” the Mayor burps, and Geralt wrinkles his nose. The smell is positively _foul_ , worse than the stench of decay settling into Jaskier’s skin. 

Geralt greets him somewhat reluctantly, and Jaskier, bless his heart, _tries_ to do the same. He ends up coughing up a mouthful of blood and ruining any chance of saving that lovely powder-blue doublet he’s wearing. “Sorry, he’s in a bad way. Is there a mage that lives here?” 

The old man stumbles closer, “Ahh… Such a pretty little thing.” Geralt blinks. Again? _Really_ ? “That doublet… really brings out the… the _blue_ in his eyes.” Not a particularly difficult feat, considering the fact that his eyes _are_ blue. “Y-You know what would make them _really_ pop? A… bit of… black eyeshadow.”

It takes a moment for Geralt to realize that the soft, rumbling _growl_ is coming from him. “You don’t say.”

“Did you know, Witcher…” he continues, oblivious, “that there is this black… _paste,”_ he spits the word out with such ferocity that he _actually_ spits, and then breaks down into peals of laughter, as if he’d just made the world’s most terrific joke. “Women smear it on their lashes… makes them look _fuller_ …” he’s staring at Jaskier again.

Any and all attempts to be diplomatic fly out the window as Geralt attempts, yet again, to emphasize how important it is that Jaskier receives treatment _now_ . “Look, as much as I’m enjoying this little crash-course in the wonders of cosmetics, it is rather _important_ that you tell me if there is a mage living here.” A beat of silence, _“Now.”_

“He doesn’t need it.” The Mayor lists to the side, falling down heavily in a tiny wooden chair which groans under the burden of his weight. 

“Doesn’t need… _what_ ?” Could this man clearly be so drunk that he could not see the blood _all over_ Jaskier? He needs medical attention _immediately,_ they’ve already wasted too much time.

“The mas… _mascara_ …” He slurs. Is he _still_ talking about make-up? Oh, for the love of -- “Ah! The apple juice. She wants some. And she always gets… what she wants.” And then, like magic, he’s out like a light, his legs spread a bit too wide for comfort. 

Geralt _seriously_ doesn’t have time for this shit. He grabs the jug of apple juice in one hand, and uses the other to hoist Jaskier up onto his shoulder. _Someone_ wants apple juice, and if it’ll bring him one step closer to finding this godsdamned mage and removing the djinn’s curse, then damn it all, _someone’s_ going to get apple juice. Fuck it, after everything is said and done, he’s whisking the bard away to the edge of the continent, burying him deep in a cocoon of furs (as an extra precaution, just in case he somehow finds a way to break himself _again_ whilst Geralt is sleeping) and insisting that they take a year-long nap. Because _this_ … this _right here_ … is too godsdamned much.

Why is it that _everyone and their cousin_ suddenly decided that _now_ was the opportune moment to write a fucking ode to the wonders that are Jaskier’s eyes? Not that _any time_ is appropriate, if you were to ask Geralt. But nobody bothered to consult the Witcher before everything went to shit. And now he’s stuck with a boyfriend, who’s an unknown stretch of time away from joining the heavenly choir, and a bunch of awkwardly, inappropriately horny paramours. All because he wanted a godsdamned _nap_ . Fucking _fuck_.

He silently hopes that the mage is like Triss -- able to see beyond the black and white, to see that the lesser of two evils is _still_ evil. A mage who seeks to use her power to _protect_ innocent life… He can hear the moaning before he’s even opened the door. 

Wonderful.

*Three*

“You two make a rather cute pair.” The mage, Yennefer, circles her bed, the ghost of a smile curling her lips as she studies the way Jaskier is sprawled out over Geralt’s lap. “Tell me, does he always sleep like that?”

“Like an octopus? Yes.” Geralt shifts a bit. He’s beyond grateful to be able to hold Jaskier without worrying if the next coughing fit will be his last, don’t get him wrong. It just feels… odd to have this unfamiliar woman studying them so intently during such an _intimate_ moment.

“I meant holding you.” She clarifies, laughing lightly when Geralt jumps a bit, as if he’d been slapped. “He holds onto you as though he’s afraid you’ll disappear in the middle of the night. And you…” she muses, “I swear, I don’t think that I’ve ever heard one man sigh so many times in my life.”

“Hmm…” Geralt idly begins to twirl a few strands of Jaskier’s chocolate brown hair about his finger.

“Fishing for a djinn seems an extreme measure to remedy sleeplessness.” Yennefer continues, sitting down on the far side of the bed. Geralt watches her from the corner of his eye, his hold on Jaskier tightening ever so slightly.

“When extreme measures seem reasonable…” he _almost_ sighs, catching himself at the last minute, “Yes. I’m desperate.” He cannot help but envy Jaskier. Even if his sleep is magically induced, at least he is resting.

“How long has he been gone?” Geralt looks at her, curious. Yennefer rolls her eyes, “You do not mean to tell me that _this_ ,” she motions to the remnants of the curse she extracted from Jaskier’s body, “is a regular occurence? There must be _some_ battles you are wise enough to face alone, Witcher.” 

“...Just a few weeks.” He concedes, voice soft.

“Hmm,” she pinches his cheek, “and when, pray tell, did you begin having troubles sleeping?”

Okay, so she _may_ have had a point. Not that he’ll ever admit to it out loud -- who knows how much of this Jaskier can actually hear, and, better yet, what he’ll actually _remember_ \-- but he’s grown used to the feel of Jaskier’s body tangled around him in the night. The soft _badump-badump_ of his heart is the best sort of lullaby, a constant assurance that Jaskier is alive and well, that Geralt has kept him safe. It’s true that there are times when it is safer for him to take on a contract on his own, but… after a decade spent traveling with the bard, he’s come to realize that he _needs_ Jaskier in the same way that he needs _air_ and _water_ and _food_.

He twirls his fingers in Jaskier’s hair and watches the bard sleep, feeling at peace in a way that he had not felt in _weeks_ . He’s still exhausted, but… He thinks that, if he were to lay back upon the feather-soft mattress and allow his weary, blackened heart to be soothed by the familiar weight of Jaskier upon his legs, he might actually be able to sleep. But that is a dream which he cannot allow to come to pass. They’re still in the midst of an unfamiliar town, in an unfamiliar woman’s bed. She might’ve saved Jaskier -- and for that, he will be eternally grateful -- but there’s something about her that he doesn’t quite trust. And he’d never forgive himself for getting Jaskier hurt _again_ , after they’d gone through _hell_ to patch him back together the first time.

“Your bard has lovely eyes.” Geralt tenses, narrowing swollen amber eyes at her. He gingerly shifts the bard away from her, the crease between his brows growing ever-deeper when she just _laughs_. “You don’t need to worry. He’s not my type.” She grins, “I just wanted to see the look on your face.” 

“Funny.” He says, finally sounding every bit as exhausted as he felt. Her smile grows softer as she extinguishes the candles surrounding the bed with a subtle _flick_ of the wrist. 

“Sleep now.” She says, “Your little lark needs his beauty rest. I’m sure he’ll be a proper nightmare if he wakes in the morn to find his eyes puffy and red.” Geralt is reminded of the one time that Jaskier had attempted to teach him about the various lotions and potions he carried in his satchel. 

There’s the sweet smelling paste, mixed with tiny granules of sea salt, which is meant to ‘exfoliate’ the skin -- whatever the hell that means. There’s a jar of coconut oil, which he uses as a moisturizer, and a vial of almond oil, which he mixes with his soap to keep the luster in his hair. The list went on and on, each item seemingly more wasteful than the last, until he remembers… _the gel_ . Jaskier has a gel made of aloe and tea tree oil, which reduces swelling and soothes irritation around the eye sockets. He should really grab that, because Yennefer is right and Jaskier will throw a proper _fit_ if he wakes up looking like he’d ended up on the wrong end of a prize fight. 

It’s definitely not because the thought of Jaskier waking up in pain physically pains him, and he doesn’t want _any_ reminders of just how close he’d come to losing him… Nope. Definitely _not_ that at all.

He tries to move, and Jaskier makes a sound like a dying banshee, unconsciously shifting his weight just enough to hold him down. Well, fuck. He flops down onto the mattress with an overly dramatic sigh, Yennefer’s twinkling laugh washing over him like a tidal wave. “Well, I do believe that you’ve been told.”

She leaves before he can formulate a proper comeback.

*Four*

“They say that eyes are the windows to the soul.” _At least the dumbass is fully conscious this time,_ Geralt muses with a soft huff. “You are an innocent soul, with your heart upon your sleeve. You have known heartache, but also… _joy_. You are incredibly happy with where your life is now.” 

Jaskier turns to him, flashing him a smile bright as the mid-morning sun. “Yeah, you could say that.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, “Watch where you’re walking before you trip.”

Jaskier clutches his chest dramatically, making a small, wounded sound in the back of his throat. “I am _perfectly_ capable of walking just a few feet without endangering my well-being thank you very mu-- _ah_!”

And there he goes… down like a rock. Geralt moves in to catch him, but is beaten out at the last second by… oh. Oh _fuck_ no. The Witcher bites down on the inside of his mouth hard enough to taste blood, doing his best to physically restrain himself from _tearing_ Yennefer’s little knight in rusty armor off of his bard. The asshat is still soaked in the blood of that poor, starving creature he’d slaughtered, and is doing a damned fine job of smearing the blood and viscera all over Jaskier’s expensive silken doublet. 

Jaskier blinks up at him, looking quite at a loss for what to do. He’d clearly been expecting someone else to break his fall, and while custom dictates that one should _thank_ their rescuer, he finds the words tangled upon his tongue as he makes awkward levels of eye contact with the knight. This is… awkward, and growing increasingly more so by the moment. At long last, the knight sets him on his feet, Jaskier spits out a harried ‘thank you’ that doesn’t sound _nearly_ as genuine as it ought, and everyone thinks that that will be the end of it, until…

“Your eyes glow like the twin suns.” Eyck says. It’s flowery and poetic and all the things that Jaskier ordinarily _loves_ … “At this angle,” he fixes a stray lock of mousy brown hair, “I can see myself… and I look _great_.”

“Heh… well isn’t that wonderful for you?” Jaskier plasters on the fakest smile that he can manage, before asking, “Tell me, did you use that line on Yennefer?” He shakes his head, “Because you really ought -- I assure you that she’ll _love_ it.” 

Much to his dismay, however, Yennefer seems to be old news now that the knight has caught a glimpse of his eyes. “Come, walk beside me for awhile, so that I might admire your beautiful eyes awhile longer…”

Jaskier blinks, “Darling, taking my eyes off of the road was what made me fall in the first place.” He reminds him, toying with the fraying strap of his lute case. “And just so we’re clear, I don’t fawn over bloodthirsty knights who butcher innocents in the name of glory. Now, if you don’t mind…”

“And yet you deign to call the Butcher of Blaviken your _friend_.” A tense moment of silence follows.

Jaskier comes to stand at his Witcher’s side and twines their fingers together, “He’s not my _friend_ ,” he gives him a gentle squeeze, “He’s my boyfriend.” The knight gives an indignant sputter, before storming off to join ranks with Yennefer once again. Jaskier turns to Geralt, “Everything’s alright, love. You can stop growling now.”

Geralt frowns, “‘m not growling.” And yet, suddenly… the sound mysteriously stops. 

“What a jackoff.” He says, letting out a long-suffering sigh. “Those lines were so disgustingly _cliche_ . I mean, _really_ \-- ‘your eyes are glow like the twin suns’? Could he think of nothing better?” He rolls his eyes. 

“Hmm.” Geralt trudges forward, keeping Jaskier’s hand safely tucked inside of his own, but refusing to meet the bard’s eyes. Jaskier frowns. 

“Well, whatever. He’s Yennefer’s problem now.” Oh, he wishes he could see the look on her face when the rusty knight tried that line on her. He can’t remember the last time he had this much fun. “Besides, I much prefer my knights to have sour dispositions and ill-fitting leather armor.” 

Geralt snorts, and suddenly, everything is right with the world.

*Five*

...at least, until it isn’t. 

He’s not quite sure why he thought he would be able to have a _peaceful_ meeting with Calanthe. She’d treated him like shit the first time they’d met, throwing out orders like a master would to a hound. And once he’d outlived his usefulness (it hadn’t taken long), she’d tried to have him killed. ...Needless to say, it hadn’t been difficult to uphold his end of the promise to steer clear of Cintran lands, even after fate decided to throw him one last curveball (because why the fuck not) in the form of his Child of Surprise. 

But this time, Calanthe had made a mistake. The Lioness of Cintra was free to threaten him as she liked, he was not one to be cowed. But the moment she involved the bard… Jaskier is _still_ shaking when he, Geralt, and Mousesack step through the portal to find Her Majesty perusing the weapons on display in the market. Unlike Geralt, the bard had not had the chance to be formally introduced to Calanthe at the wedding -- aside from a few brash instructions barked his way, she hadn’t even bothered to _look_ at him. And now, _now_ she’d tried to take his head. 

“I warned you about coming back.” She says, eyeing him carefully. 

“I’ve been away twelve years, and I planned on staying that way.” He counters, “Then you sent eight men to kill me.” He hooks a hand around Jaskier’s trembling wrist, dragging him forward to show the Queen the cut upon his neck. “You damn near killed my bard.”

When Calanthe smiles, he can see in her face the hardness born of _years_ toiling to retain a hard-bought power. “Fear is a good look on him. It really makes his eyes _pop_.” Jaskier swallows hard, “They’re such a magnificent color. Like lightning in the middle of a torrential downpour.”

For the love of… the bard flirts with death, and death flirts right back. “Err… Geralt? Y-Your grip is a bit _tight_ there, my love.” He releases the bard’s wrist absently, “And… um… t-thank you? For the utterly terrifying compliment, that is. Not for trying to kill me. I am decidedly less than pleased about that.”

“I wonder if they’d look even more beautiful, wet with tears…” she muses, absently.

“A-Ah, I’d really rather _not_ . You see, this mascara isn’t waterproof and nobody wants to see _this_ ,” he gestures vaguely to his face, “once the makeup starts to run…”

“Have you ever thought of settling down, becoming a court musician? I’d pay you handsomely, of course.” He didn’t think it was possible, but this woman is actually more terrifying than Yennefer. His cornflower blue eyes widen, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as he struggles to find a suitable answer.

“Much as he appreciates the offer, Your Highness,” Geralt says, teeth clenched, “I do believe he is a _bit_ young for you.” Jaskier’s mouth snaps closed with an audible _clack_.

“Then what does that make him to you, Witcher?”

He should’ve known that the Queen would pull something like this. A handful of hours later, he finds himself alone in a cell. Having thwarted Calanthe’s plan to hand over a fake Ciri, the Queen had decided it would be best for him to remain safely stowed away until the Nilfgaardians had been dealt with. Once the threat was removed, there would no longer be any need for him to take Ciri and he and the bard would be sent on their way, never to return. Which would be absolutely fabulous… except for the fact that Destiny is a coldhearted bitch. 

Nilfgaard attacks, and Cintra falls, just as he’d expected. He recovers the bard in a field of bodies, somehow unharmed… but Ciri is nowhere to be found. When they pass the Queen’s body on the way out of the city, Jaskier starts crying, and when there are no tears left to shed, his body is wracked with little hiccuping sobs, until finally, he succumbs to exhaustion. Geralt lays him out across Roach’s back and together they travel deep into the woods, where they come across a merchant burying the bodies of Cintran refugees that had been slaughtered in their camp by Nilfgaardian soldiers. 

And then Destiny decides it’s _his_ turn to die. He truthfully cannot think of a more fitting ending.

At least this time he was able to keep Jaskier safe…

*Bonus*

Geralt didn’t think he’d ever open his eyes again… and yet here he is. It takes a moment for his eyes to focus, to see anything besides the… rain? Is it raining? And then he realizes that the warm drops of rain streaking across his skin are actually tears, and Jaskier is kneeling beside him, hovering _over_ him, words spilling out of his mouth so fast that he cannot decipher what in the world it is that he is trying to say. He blinks, eyes opening fully for the first time, and Jaskier lets out an excited _squeal_ as he launches himself at Geralt’s belly. 

“Oh, thank the gods… I thought you were dying, you lumbering oaf!” ...It’s probably best that he doesn’t mention that he was, in fact, dying. The bard’s been through enough.

He cups his cheek, caressing the tear-stained flesh with his thumb, “Sorry.” And then, softer, “You know, Calanthe was wrong about a lot of things, but… I must reluctantly agree that your eyes do look lovely when you cry.” He wheezes, feeling better than he has in days but still so incredibly weak, “So long as they’re tears of happiness…”

Jaskier gives him a watery smile, “The high and mighty Witcher, complimenting little old me? Should I be scared? Is this a sign that the apocalypse is nigh?” 

Geralt smirks, managing a soft, “I love you,” before the tide pulls him back under.

It takes Jaskier and the merchant’s combined strength to load Geralt back into the cart; Jaskier climbs in behind him, busying himself with redressing his Witcher’s wound as they begin to ride. “I love you, too, Geralt…” He whispers as he gingerly sets the gauze in place, “...Rest well.”


End file.
